


you're the one that i want / greased lightning

by cloudtalking



Category: Green Creek Series - T.J. Klune
Genre: Greaser AU, High School AU, M/M, different first meeting, i love my gay dads, mentions of shitty fathers and dead parents oof, sorta - Freeform, uhhh gore ig but it's casual, valentines day exchange, violence & murder & love oh my
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2018-02-12
Packaged: 2019-03-17 12:20:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13658847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloudtalking/pseuds/cloudtalking
Summary: for @svragent for the prompts: "I love you so fucking much, baby", motorbikesmark bennett has had a crush on gordo livingstone since he set his brother's art project aflame in the sixth grade. unfortunately, gordo livingstone is as much fire and brimstone as mark is angel wings and halos; meaning he's arguably the worst of the worst. mark suffers.featuring: lizzie as a traitor, maggie as an omniscient and ethereal milkshake goddess, thomas as prom queen, rico as a menace, and valentines day as a capitalist sham.





	you're the one that i want / greased lightning

**Author's Note:**

> idk what this fic is honestly but i hope you like it!!

“Happy Valentines Day,” Elizabeth greets him, dumping her pile of binders down next to Mark’s.

 

“Happy Valentines Day,” Mark echoes, smiling up at her. She slides in next to him on the bench, taking her usual seat at the Bennett’s lunch table.

 

The only people who could claim the rights to permanent seating were Thomas, Elizabeth, and himself. They’d had people come and go, of course; Thomas had an energy about him, something magnetic and enticing that drew the world to his front door like moths to a flame.

 

Those same moths left soon after they realized that door was locked, Mark and Elizabeth being the only two people on earth gifted with the keys. Thomas’s attention was meant for them only, though he was generally pleasant enough that everyone felt like they were important when he addressed them.

 

There was already a pile building up in the center of the table, boxes of chocolates and cards stacking up more and more as the period progressed.

 

Elizabeth ignores the pile, as she does every year. They both know Thomas won’t spare it more than a glance, so neither will they.

 

“Writing a love note of your own?” Elizabeth nudges him gently, eying the piece of colored paper and pencil in his hands.

 

“Sorta?” Mark shrugs. “I doubt I’ll actually go through with it, but it’s nice to pretend I have the courage.”

 

Elizabeth sighs. “C’mon, Mark. It’s Valentine’s Day, just go for it.”

 

“Because the fact that it’s the fourteenth of February will magically make my crush like me back?” Mark snorts. “Yeah right, I’m good ending today without the sweet taste of rejection, thanks.”

 

“It’ll be fine.” Elizabeth rolls her eyes. “You’re not Thomas, but there’s still plenty of people falling all over you.”

 

Mark Bennett, being Thomas Bennett’s brother, was born into the world at the very top of the social hierarchy. Thomas was a junior president, adored by classmates, respected by instructors. Mark was loved by association, elevated by his proximity to his brother’s spotlight.

 

Thomas thrived in it, but Mark tried his best to politely deflect whatever attention fell on him to the people around him. He wasn’t quite shy, but he wasn’t the biggest fan of pretending to care for people he barely knew the names of.

 

“So, who is it?” Elizabeth pressed. Mark fully intended to decline to answer, but his eyes found their way to the object of his affections instead.

 

Nearly six feet of dark skin and tattoos, clothed in the signature leather jacket and jeans ensemble of greaser boys everywhere. His hair was slicked back, the excess held up in a bun.

 

He reeks of trouble and gasoline, a combination that is sure to blow the second it is touched. Mark had never been so willing to burn.

 

Elizabeth follows his gaze.

 

“Never mind,” she says, clapping him on the back. “You’re fucked.”

 

“Yeah,” Mark grimaces.

 

Gordo Livingstone, biker, mechanic, and greaser boy extraordinaire. He led a gang of boys that all worked at his father’s shop; the shop belonging more to him than his father at this point. He was self sufficient, self made, and self governed.

 

Gordo Livingstone was born holding a grudge and a cigarette in his mouth. If Thomas Bennett was the bright center of the universe, Gordo was as far into nothingness as one could ever be. Being as loved as they were, the Bennett crowd was equally as resented for it.

 

Mark knows where he stands in Gordo’s eyes. He knows how a boy with a perfect life handed to him on a silver platter is viewed by someone who had to fight tooth and claw for scraps.

 

Gordo is a king in his own right now, leading the flight of an unkindness of his very own making. Mark was the prince of an enemy kingdom.

 

He’s fucked.

 

“Good luck with that,” she says. He knows she means it.

 

Thomas arrives, pushing the ever growing pile of love letters aside to get a better look at Elizabeth while he talks. Mark almost bids her good luck in return, but lord knows she doesn’t need it.

  


Mark feels very proud of himself for all of two seconds. Butterflies flutter about in his stomach, his hands are shaking with disbelief, but he’s proud. In Gordo Livingstone’s locker rests a folded red heart-shaped card, complete with glitter. Maybe an excess of glitter. Mark might have the need to bedazzle when nervous, but if he did then it was soothing and no one had any proof either way.

 

Inside, Mark had tried his hardest to mimic Thomas’s handwriting. His brother had taken a calligraphy course for shits and giggles, and thus has become far more adept at pretty letters than Mark would ever be. His own script much more closely resembles Elizabeth’s, and whoever had cracked jokes at the penmanship of doctors had clearly never seen that of an artist.

 

Mark is not a writer, in aesthetic or prose. He took far too long to decide on the message:

 

WILL YOU BE MY VALENTINE?

 

☐ YES     ☐ OF COURSE     ☐ ABSOLUTELY

 

It had seemed funny at the time.

 

Mark crosses the parking lot, heading over to Elizabeth to tell her the good news, face red but smiling.

 

It’s then that the butterflies fly up his esophagus so far that he chokes, stopping him dead in his tracks. Disaster clouded his horizon like an oncoming storm, imminent and unable to ignore.

 

In Gordo Livingstone’s locker is a shitty Valentine’s Day card that Mark had made the mistake of actually signing because he knows nothing of self-preservation.

 

“Lizzie, help me fake my death?” he pleads, climbing into the shotgun seat of her car.

 

Elizabeth takes one look at the mess he is and nods to herself. “We need milkshakes.”

 

“Fuck yeah.” No amount of melted strawberry ice cream can erase the past, but adding a couple pounds of whipped cream and chocolate syrup could help him pretend it can.

 

Their server, Maggie Callaway, sits behind him in statistics. She also sits with Gordo’s crew during lunch. Mark wonders if she already knows, if she walked with Gordo to his locker at the end of the day, if she laughed with him when he read the letter aloud.

 

Maggie takes their order, pleasantries unwavering, and smiles at them both before taking off.

 

“Life hates me,” Mark groans.

 

“You’ll get through this,” Elizabeth assures him, taking his hand across the table. “Trust me, you’re building it up way too much. Even if he does reject you, he won’t make it into a spectacle or anything.”

 

“He blew up Thomas’s art project in the sixth grade,” Mark deadpans.

 

“Thomas was a little shit in the sixth grade,” Elizabeth defends. “It was a pretty shit painting anyway.”

 

Thomas had been planning on giving the painting to Elizabeth, and had raised quite a fit when it was discovered charred and in pieces. Mark wasn’t sure Elizabeth would’ve been impressed by his crude depiction of wolves on the canvas, but had made sure to validate his brother’s anger and disappointment anyway.

 

“It was,” Mark agrees.

 

“He called it a self portrait or something, didn’t he?” Elizabeth taps her chin. “It was an animal project.”

 

Mark shrugs. “I don’t pretend to understand my brother, it’s better to just admit I have no idea what he’s on about half the time.”

 

Elizabeth barks out a laugh. “Yeah, I feel that.”

 

Thomas Bennett was loved by most and watched by all, a showcase of a man that almost always garnered an audience. Mark and Elizabeth followed him because unlike the rest, he let them. That didn’t mean they understood half of the production, just that he deemed them competent enough to adapt quickly as he acted.

 

“Anyway, back to the topic at hand.” Elizabeth rests her head on the palm of her hand, elbow on the table as she leans forward. “We’re not faking your death because of Gordo Livingstone.”

 

“What about Gordo?” Maggie asks, coming back to the table with milkshakes in hand, setting both down on the table.

 

“Thank you.” Elizabeth smiles up at her, taking her shake and a preoffered straw. Mark copies her, looking down at the table to mask the red in his face.

 

“Mark is of the belief that Gordo’s about to ruin his life,” Elizabeth says, smiling up at the waitress with all the cheer in the world.

 

Mark wonders how Thomas fell for such a closet sadist. He decides he definitely does not want to know.

 

“Sounds like him,” Maggie hums. Mark prays to whatever deity that would listen that the booth would swallow him whole.

 

“Anything else?” She continues, unfazed by Mark’s suffering.

 

Gordo probably had people crying over their impending doom every other Thursday. Mark’s unwilling addition to the ranks of his victims wasn’t anything unusual.

 

Mark left the diner heavy with strawberry ice cream and regrets.

 

If Thomas noticed his post-milkshake melancholy when Mark returned, he didn’t call him out on it. He did make an effort not to bring up anything to do with valentines or even Elizabeth for most of dinner though. Mark supposed that was good enough.

 

The day after Valentine’s Day; a day for disappointment and denying the credibility of yesterday’s actions. No, Mark hadn’t asked anyone out at all, and absolutely no one had put their card into Thomas’s loot only to be ignored for a wannabe liberal arts student. It was almost a normal school day, almost able to pass by without anyone noticing.

 

Except that he had, and there was five minutes until lunch, and Mark couldn’t tear his eyes away from the red hand of the clock.

 

“You know those are off, right?” Maggie asks from behind him. “Have been since freshman year?”

 

“Time isn’t real,” Mark grumbles, startling a laugh out of his classmate.

 

“You and Gordo are gonna get on just fine.” Maggie grins at him. The bell rings before Mark can process her words and form a proper question, giving Maggie the perfect avenue to make her escape.

 

Mark’s mouth opens and closes like a fish, unmoving as the rest of the class files out, glad to be rid of statistics for the day.

 

“Motherfucker,” he curses, grabbing his bag and heading to the lunchroom. Out of the fire and straight into hell.

 

As much as Thomas Bennett was the center of the universe, he and his crowd always sat to the far left of the lunchroom. Gordo’s gang made sure to do the opposite, the kings of heaven and fallen angels repelling each other like magnets of the same charge. They balanced out the lunchroom, like attracting like and drawing the line between the kingdoms.

 

Mark was so far out of his element that he was stranded, beached ashore and left to die in a world so alien to him he was sure he’d left his galaxy behind. He entered the lunch room towards the center, but for once felt the pull from the right side of the lunchroom, the side that didn’t belong to him.

 

The side that belonged to Gordo Livingstone.

 

Mark looks to his table, used to Gordo either skipping lunch or being the only occupant of the table full of rowdy greasers that sat quietly and ate. Now he’s standing, eyes trained on Mark. Mark carries the weight of the gaze on his shoulders, Atlas holding up what remains of his fragile world.

 

Gordo inclines his head at Mark in such a way that he knows it’s a command, beckoning him to stand for his execution.

 

Mark wonders if he should  go to church more if he’s going to be praying to god to save him every five minutes.

 

Mark makes his way through the crowd like water sinking through oil, his lack of belonging glaringly obvious. Mark feels millions of eyes on his back, millions making up the jury that decides his fate.

 

Gordo stands before him, gaze heavy like a blade, ready to fall and cut him at any second. He stands before him, a judge with a clear bias towards the case. The verdict already made.

 

This is not a jury of his peers, after all. His peers are sitting in brightly colored clothes and studying for history exams and trying to catch a glimpse of what Mark thinks he’s doing. His peers are looking to him, to Thomas, to him again. His peers are asking his brother to stop him, because is he out of his mind?

 

Mark very well might be.

 

Gordo Livingstone is standing before him, hair slicked back and leather-clad arms crossed on his chest.

 

Gordo Livingstone is standing before him, holding a red heart-shaped piece of paper that may or may not be leaking glitter onto the floor, tapping his foot as he waits for Mark to get the hell over there already.

 

Gordo Livingstone is standing before him, and he might be blushing.

 

Mark is most definitely out of his mind. It’s a nice fantasy regardless.

 

“Hey,” Gordo says, and Mark dies.

 

“Um.” he blinks, making a valiant effort to tear his eyes away from the card in Gordo’s and and to his face. “How are you?” he asks, visibly cringing as he does so.

 

“Good, you?”

 

“Dying.” Mark puts his face in his hands.

 

“Huh.” Gordo’s eyes widen. “Uh, that’s rough.”

 

“Yep.” Mark bites his lip. He’d hoped that Gordo would at least have the mercy to make it quick, to crush whatever hopes Mark might’ve had at snatching his high school sweetheart in one fell swoop. Not only was he dragging it out, but the conversation was drier than the Sahara desert.

 

Gordo sighs heavily, uncrossing his arms and holding the card out towards Mark. “I think you got the wrong locker.”

 

Mark stares at the glittery mess of paper in Gordo’s hand. “Um, no,” he says, because he’s an idiot.

 

“What?” Gordo cocks his head like a lost puppy, reminding Mark as to why he’s been fawning over him since middle school.

 

“That card’s for you,” Mark says. “I made it with purple and blue glitter because it matches your aesthetic. Your locker is across the hall from mine, so I know I got the right one. I’ve had a crush on you for six years, I didn’t make a mistake.”

 

Gordo is definitely blushing, but Mark is too, so it doesn’t matter. He just confessed to Gordo in the lunchroom, ignoring the path to safety and fessing up to his affections.

 

“Oh.” Gordo breathes. “You mean, you’re serious?”

 

Mark nods. “Deadly.”

 

“I— Oh,” Gordo says again. He looks Mark up and down, eyes raking over his body as if he’d never seen him before. “Well then.”

 

Mark shoves his hands into his pockets. “It’s fine if you don’t feel the same, but that card is for you. Don’t try and give it back to me.”

 

Gordo brings the card closer to his chest, looking at it under a whole new light. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

 

Mark decides that through all his reckless truths, one more couldn’t hurt.

 

“I’d like to take you out, if that’s on the table?” He smiles tentatively. “There’s a new Star Wars movie out, I heard it was good?”

 

Gordo bites his lip. “Yeah, I’d— I’d like that.”

 

“Great!” Mark grins. “I’ll pick you up at the shop at five?”

 

Gordo nods. “Cool.”

 

Mark walks back to his table a freed man, head still firmly on his shoulders. If there’s a new bounce in his step, that’s no one’s business but his.

 

Five O’clock comes and goes, leaving Mark parked outside of the shop in a blue dress shirt and his nicest jeans, he even styled his hair.

 

Gordo, true to fashion, had changed his white tee shirt into a different one of the same making, this one with slightly less grease stains.

 

“Glad to see you brought your formal leather jacket,” Mark jokes.

 

Gordo rolls his eyes. “I’ve heard enough from Rico, I’m not getting dressed up for a gross ass movie theatre.”

 

“Oh?” Mark arches a brow. “Pray tell, what have movie theatres ever done to you?”

 

“I used to work at one,” Gordo grumbles. “They’re covered in popcorn, spilled soda, and the regurgitated baby food of crying children. They’re basically plastic ball pits of disease.”

 

“Oh, gross.” Mark scrunches up his nose. “That’s terrible. Star Wars is worth it though.”

 

“It better be,” Gordo says. “I might have to demand another date as compensation if it fails to deliver.”

 

“Oh, the horror.” Mark mock-shudders, laughing. “C’mon, I promise my car is a bit more sanitary than the theatre.”

 

“We’ll see about that,” Gordo mutters, but climbs into shotgun anyway.

 

The movie itself is just as much as a hit as it was rumored to be, keeping Mark on the edge of his seat. He’s practically vibrating, bouncing up and down as he points out parts of the movie he finds particularly impressive.

 

Gordo shows about as much interest in the movie as he would drying paint, but he watches Mark as if hypnotised, enraptured by the excitement pouring off his date.

 

“Can you believe that?” Mark asks for about the third time as they head out of the theatre. “Gordo, that was the best thing I’ve ever seen.”

 

“That’s generous,” Gordo snarks, only to be met by Mark rolling his eyes.

 

“Oh please, that was a miracle of a movie, be honest.”

 

“It’s a miracle it got far enough into production to become a movie,” Gordo remarks. “The dialogue fucking sucked.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Mark waves him off. “Anyway, that was amazing. I’m gonna hold the spoilers over Tom’s head forever.”

 

“Anything to torment Thomas Bennett, I guess.” Gordo shrugs, earning him a mock-glare and a laugh.

 

“That’s my brother, you know.” Mark pouts, poking Gordo’s chest. “He’s gonna be the one threatening you by the door, so I wouldn’t be poking fun.”

 

Gordo snorts, taking a sip from their shared large cola. “The day I’m scared of Thomas Bennett is the day I wear pink.”

 

“You’d look nice in pink,” Mark thinks out loud, causing Gordo to choke on his soda. “Now lets go, I promised I’d have you back by eight thirty at the latest.”

 

Gordon rolls his eyes again, but Mark pays him no mind. He’d just seen the best movie ever created with the best boy he’d ever met, not even Gordo’s criticisms could spoil it for him.

 

“There’s a shortcut to the shop,” Gordo says when they hop into the car. “Just through the backroads, I’ll show you.”

 

And he does, over Gordo’s personal choice of Metallica playing on the radio. It’s something of a scenic route, covered by dense woods on either side. It must’ve been prettier in the daytime, but at night it just makes it seem darker than it is.

 

The dark might’ve explained why neither of them saw anything when they felt something ram into Mark’s convertible.

 

“Holy motherfucker—“ Mark slams on the brakes, too late to stop any impact. “Holy fuck, what did we hit?”

 

“I don’t know,” Gordo looks around wildly. “Probably a deer? I’ll get out and see.”

 

Mark shakes his head. “Let me,” he offers. “I have a bad feeling about this, I’d feel better if you stayed in the car.”

 

“Oh, because I’m such a damsel in distress,” Gordo mocks.

 

“Nah, but you are precious, wouldn’t want whatever’s out there hurting you,” Mark says as if it’s nothing. He’s become rather confident in his ability to sort out when Gordo blushes, and this seems to be one of those times.

 

“We’ll go out together,” Gordo decides. “That way we can cover each other’s asses if this deer turns out to be a dude with a chainsaw or something.”

 

“Or Darth Vader,” Mark jokes, climbing out of the driver’s seat.

 

“Yeah, or Dracula on life support,” Gordo agrees, getting out the other side.

 

It’s cold, even for a February in Washington. A steady cloud of fog has risen just high enough to be problematic, causing Mark to squint at the murky darkness of the forest.

 

“I can’t see anything,” Mark reports. “You?”

 

“Nah,” Gordo’s voice comes from the other side of the car. “Maybe— Shit!” Mark hears a thud as he hits the ground, hears muffled growls and cries of pain.

 

“Gordo?” Mark asks, already running to the other side of the car. He’s greeted by a mess of lights and fur and blood, Gordo the centerpiece of the arrangement, shining like a star in the midst of the chaos.

 

Gordon is glowing and being held down by two wolves with similarly illuminated purple eyes. Mark’s own eyes go orange.

 

“Oh, you have got to be shitting me,” Gordo groans, but gets no response for soon none of those who hear him possess human vocal cords.

 

Gordo lights one wolf on fire, causing it to release its hold on his leg, and Mark launches himself at the one taking residency on Gordo’s chest. He buries his teeth in the omega’s shoulder and twists, tearing flesh and bone alike until in his jaws is a brown-furred leg.

 

Neither wolf is capable of getting up anytime soon. Neither Mark nor Gordo is quite done yet.

 

Mark jumps at the scorched wolf, letting the leg drop to the floor and tackling the wild to the ground. A flurry of tooth and claw ensues, each trying to bloody as much of the other as possible.

 

Eventually, Mark’s jaws close around the omega’s throat as he bites down hard. The wolf stops moving altogether.

 

Gordo has already propped himself up on shaky legs and cast a wordless spell of incineration to erase the evidence of the first wolf, he repeats the action with the other the second Mark climbs off of him.

 

“Well, fuck,” Gordo says in all his shining glory. “I’m on a date with a werewolf.” He’s an aurora borealis of colors and Mark has never wanted anything more but to touch him.

 

He shifts back, still covered in blood from head, and does just that.

 

“I love you so fucking much, baby,” Mark mutters, eyes still a fiery orange. “You’re beautiful.”

 

Gordo lets him trace his bloody fingers across his tattoos, exposed through rips in his jacket by the wolves. Mark has always had a love for them, the art entrancing him even from afar, but now that he’s allowed to indulge it becomes an obsession. He wants to see all of the ink gracing Gordo’s skin, wants to memorize the lines and patterns drawn on his body, wants to map them with his mouth.

 

“Don’t you think it’s a bit too early for that?” Gordo points out, but wraps his arms around Mark’s waist regardless.

 

“Not for me.” Mark shrugs. “Not for wolves.”

 

Gordo freezes. “Please don’t tell me this is that wolf soulmate thing.”

 

“Fine, I won’t tell you.” Mark buries his face in Gordo’s neck instead, feeling more than hearing his sharp intake of breath at the revelation.

 

“Fuck,” Gordo curses. “You mean—?”

 

“I’m in love with you? Yeah.” Mark pulls away and rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “You don’t have to accept, I haven’t even offered you my wolf or anything yet, though I want to. You don’t have to do anything, but if you decide you want me, then I’m yours.”

 

“I read about this,” Gordo says. “I didn’t really have much actual teaching in the ways of werewolves, but my dad had a few books lying around that I read. Forgive me if I’m wrong, but doesn’t this mean that if I say no then you’re doomed to an eternity of loneliness?”

 

“Not exactly.” Mark  shakes his head. “We can love again, but it’s hard to find someone else that we love as passionately as we do our first.”

 

“Oh.” Gordo blinks. “So, hypothetically, if I declined—“

 

“I’d be happy with being your friend or whatever else you wanted from me,” Mark finishes for him.

 

“And if I said yes?” Gordo asks, drawing a hopeful smile out of Mark.

 

“Then I’d love you till the ends of the earth and back,” Mark vows. “I’ve already killed for you, and I will do it again if I need to. I want you as a mate, Gordo Livingstone, and you don’t have to decide now, but if you accept I will make sure you never have to worry about violent omegas again.”

 

“The feeling’s mutual,” is all that Gordo says in return. Mark is sure the dumb grin on his face will end up permanent if he keeps staring at Gordo’s face.

 

“So, witchcraft?” Mark asks. “I haven’t met a witch before.”

 

“That doesn’t surprise me. The last one— my dad— got run out of Green Creek by the current alpha, your dad I guess?” Gordo shrugs.

 

“Mom,” Mark corrects. “But she died a while back, we’ve got a new Alpha now.”

 

“Sorry for your loss,” Gordo says. It’s such an overused phrase coming out of such an original person that it feels almost ridiculous, even if he seems to mean it.

 

“Don’t be, the new alpha’s great,” Mark says honestly, shrugging off the concern. He then gestures to the surrounding mess— bulldozed convertible, pools of blood, piles of ash, and the smell of burning flesh. “What do we do now,”

 

“I’m going to call my boys to bring my bike,” Gordo says, pulling out his phone. “And also a tow truck. We can’t exactly drive your car home.”

 

Mark assesses the damage on the convertible and winces. It wasn’t enough to cause any lasting effects on the werewolves, but it was enough to make the car unfit for the road.

 

“That’s probably wise,” Mark agrees. “My dad’s going to fucking kill me.”

 

Gordo laughs now, full of pent up emotion that has been building all evening. “I think your father is the least of your worries right now, babe.”

 

Rico drives the tow, something that worries Mark dearly. He wouldn’t trust Rico with the health and safety of a cactus, let alone his car. As much as the convertible has been through the ringer, Mark would like to have it back in one piece.

 

Rico hooks Mark’s car up to the tow with little need for help, smiling at him and promising to bring his baby home safe. Mark is not assured.

 

Chris and Tanner bring Gordo’s bike over, Chris moving from the bike to the back of Tanner’s as Gordo reclaims his rightful place on his throne.

 

“Get on.” Gordo pats the space on the seat behind him. Mark needs no further invitation, mounting the bike fast as lightning and wrapping his arms right around Gordo’s middle, burying his face in his back.

 

The shortcut works, returning all five of them to the shop not long after Mark had promised.

 

“You might want to get cleaned up,” Rico advises Mark. “You’ve got a little something here.” He gestures to Mark’s entire person, still covered in the lifeblood of the omegas.

 

Mark grins, teeth still sharp, looking like he’d been pulled from a horror movie. Rico makes the wise decision to leave him be, keeping safely out of biting distance.

 

“He’s right about that much,” Gordo admits. “Take a quick shower, I’ve got clothes you can change into. Then I’ll drive you home.”

 

Mark does as he says, not even bothering to pretend he isn’t enjoying the prospect of wearing Gordo’s clothes. He showers off, pulling on Gordo’s sweatpants and an old band tee shirt. They smell like grease and lightning, the electric taste of magic wrapping around Mark like a snake. Mark breathes in deep, glad to smell like blood and danger.

 

“Hell of a first date,” Mark comments, pressing himself up against Gordo’s back as he adjusts his position on the bike.

 

“You can say that again.” Gordo revs the engine in such a way that would usually have Mark swooning in the parking lot and Thomas calling him an asshole. “Don’t suppose you’d like a repeat?”

 

“I’d love one,” Mark confesses against Gordo’s neck,  grinning when he feels him shiver.

 

“Good,” Gordo says, voice rough. “I’ve got Monty Python on DVD, you have to see that there is better movies than fucking Star Wars.”

 

“Blasphemy!” Mark accuses, but Gordo takes off in favor of responding, leaving Mark to his outrage.

 

Mark isn’t entirely sure how he fell for such an asshole. It might have something to do with the pleased smirk playing across said asshole’s lips.

 

“Here we are,” Gordo announces, pulling into Mark’s driveway. Mark had not needed to worry about giving Gordo his address. Everyone in Green Creek knew exactly where the infamous Thomas Bennett was located, the building being the only one around ancient and grandiose enough to house such a man.

 

Mark hops off the bike, taking a chance and kissing Gordo on the cheek. “See you tomorrow?”

 

“Yeah, you want to sit with me at lunch?” Gordo asks.

 

“Of course,” Mark agrees, then grimaces. “Thomas is gonna be up my ass about it, though. Shit.”

 

Gordo looks delighted at the thought of causing Thomas Bennett any sort of discomfort, but it doesn’t last long.

 

“I’m going to be up your ass about this a while longer,” Thomas announces from the porch, glaring down at the both of them.

 

Gordo recovers from the sudden intrusion quickly enough, having often been on the receiving end of Thomas’s disapproval. He slides an arm around Mark’s waist and meets his gaze, raising an eyebrow as if daring Thomas to say anything.

 

Mark does his best to grin and look innocent, even attached to Thomas’s least favorite greaser and standing next to his motorcycle.

 

“Come on in, both of you.” Thomas smiles politely, eyes not losing their dangerous glint. “Mark needs to change and give you your clothes back, and you need to explain what is going on.”

 

“I don’t need to do anything,” Gordo retorts, even as Mark is already hurrying along.

 

Thomas’s eyes flash red, only for a second, but still unmistakable against the dark of the night. “Do you?”

 

Gordo falls into step behind Mark, hanging his head low. Mark is going to hold him to his promise of wearing pink.

 

“You’re a Livingstone witch,” Thomas says once Mark has retreated up into his room to change. It’s a statement, not a question. The Livingstone name if famous for having been dragged through dirt and blood by his father. If Thomas Bennett is really the alpha he’s cracked up to be, Gordo is honestly surprised that it took him this long to figure it out.

 

“No shit,” he says. “Thanks for that, captain obvious.”

 

“Your father has killed a fair number of people.”

 

“He’s also killed any chances at being my father,” Gordo retorts. “He’s not number one in my books either. I’m not my father’s son, so you don’t have to worry.”

 

“Good.” Thomas’s eyes are red again, his teeth are sharp. Gordo is reminded of his books, how they placed werewolves near the top of the creature food chain. Alphas are to be obeyed, one must avoid offending or challenging an alpha at all costs.

 

Gordo thinks of the claim he’s staked on Mark, of the claim Mark has staked on him, of the years of making Thomas’s life hell. It’s a bit too late to follow any of the advice in the books.

 

“If you do turn out to take after your father, you’ll have to understand that you won’t last long,” Thomas says it like he’s listing groceries, mindless and careless.

 

“I won’t,” Gordon promises, because he’s a witch, and as a witch his word is binding.

 

Thomas nods, and Mark returns in his own beaten-down sweats, carrying the folded pile of Gordo’s clothes.

 

“I had fun tonight,” Mark confesses, smiling softly. “Despite, you know, the rogue omegas and my car getting totaled.”

 

Thomas’s eyes widen, eyebrows shooting up into his hairline. Gordo has to school his features to hold back a smirk.

 

“Me too,” Gordo admits. He pulls Mark in for a kiss, partly to get on Thomas’s nerves but mostly just because he wants to. He takes the bundle of clothes from Mark’s hands. It’s far heavier than he knows it should be, but he doesn’t let his surprise show.

 

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Gordo says, and deliberately doesn’t look at Thomas’s face as he makes his way out the door and back to his bike.

 

Inside the bundle of folded clothes rests a small stone carving of a wolf.

 

“That motherfucker,” Gordo whispers, but smiles all the way back to the shop.

 

If he’s been wanting this since he saw Mark holding back laughter at Thomas Bennett’s scorched and splintered painting, that’s no one’s business but his own.

**Author's Note:**

> this was super fun to write yo!! ty for the prompts ily!!


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